


Instance

by kriegersan



Series: Hello world [3]
Category: Metal Gear
Genre: Breaking the Fourth Wall, Choking, Gallows Humor, M/M, Mission Fic, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Relationship, Pre-Slash, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Spy Nonsense, Trust Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-15
Updated: 2015-10-15
Packaged: 2018-04-26 13:53:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5007241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kriegersan/pseuds/kriegersan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“So it’s really you, huh? She didn’t tell me, but I had a feeling it might be you.”</p><p>(Pre-Tanker Incident, Philanthropy fic. Snake and Otacon abduct a body.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Instance

**Author's Note:**

> This installment includes references to the sexual assault of a minor, canon-typical violence and some slightly slipshod world-building.

How do you erase your past?

This is something Otacon contemplates well into his second straight day of lying aimlessly in bed, huddled under the sheets, cold and alone. When the weight of all of his actions and choices starts to sit too heavy in his mind, he handles it with long periods of self-loathing, staring off into nothing. Very productive.

It used to happen a lot more frequently inside the icy laboratory walls in Alaska, and as he lays there, he realizes this is the first time in awhile he’s gotten stuck, really _stuck_ , in his head. It almost makes him feel more guilty, like he should be spending more time consumed in self-hatred for those he’d essentially murdered in his own naive self-indulgence. He doesn’t want to forget.

It’s times like this that make him drift to Julie, think about the comforting, fever-sick warmth of her embrace. He wonders if she still tries to send letters to his old P.O. box. What she would even have to say to him after he’d disappointed her, too. How horrible it is for him to crave her touch given everything he’d ruined with his own selfish desire to be wanted.

He presses the heels of his hands into his eyes.

He stays that way until Snake enters the room. He doesn’t even have to look, and even though Snake isn’t concentrating enough to actively make noise for his benefit, Otacon knows he’s there.

Otacon peeks an eye open. He’s shirtless, droplets of water traveling down the hard lines of his back from his still-wet hair. It’s getting a little long. His towel dips low on his hips as he bends, and Snake looks over, clearly aware that Otacon’s awake. He pretends he wasn’t following every movement through the slit of his eye.

“So this is what you’re gonna do all day? Again?”

Otacon replies with a huff, watching Snake’s shoulders move as he pulls on a t-shirt, fabric sticking to his abs from the dampness of his skin. He pulls up the blankets over his face. 

“You good?” 

“It’s stupid. I’m fine.” He screws his face into an expression of ambivalence, sits upright, the yawning neck of his t-shirt baring his shoulder. He collects his glasses, slides them onto his face, where a fully clothed Snake is giving him a disapproving look. “I’ll get up.”

“You look like shit,” says Snake, ruffling the water out of his hair. He hangs up the towel, regards Otacon like he would a household project. Oh no. “You need some fresh air. Been holed up in here for too long.”

“But it’s raining outside.”

“All the more reason to get out there. Less people around, lower visibility.”

“Ugh.” He dramatically collapses back into the bed. 

Snake kicks the edge of the mattress, jostles him. “Put on some pants, nerd.”

“I need coffee first.” He is nothing if not a creature of habit.

“I know. There’s a fresh pot in the kitchen.”

Otacon makes a noise of approval. By the time he’s worked his way up to his elbows again, Snake’s left the room, left him to his own devices again. 

He still feels tired, and a little sad, but he knows that Snake could gleefully drag his miserable ass through a workout or a run or whatever kind of torture he decided Otacon deserved today, without batting an eye. It was that incredible willpower and determination that had attracted Otacon so much in the first place, after all. The reason he’d picked Snake as his partner to do the impossible.

The impossible. Like undoing Otacon’s mistakes. Or finding a shirt that doesn’t smell too bad.

He forces himself to get dressed in the cleanest thing he can find. He doesn’t have to be happy about it, though.

* * *

As it would turn out, the ‘torture’ is just a walk. Otacon’s pretty grateful, even if his shoes are soaked and his waterproof jacket is rapidly trying to disprove its label. Snake doesn’t seem bothered, damp hair curling out from under a beanie, the collar of his jacket turned up to the wind.

They walk through the nearby park, and as miserable as it is outside, Otacon can’t help but let the gears keep spinning. Even if Snake was trying to do something to get him outside of that prison, the apartment walls weren’t really the thing trapping him in. 

They make it to the fountain, where ducks are milling about in little circles, bathed by the droplets of rain. There’s no one around aside from them. It’s pretty peaceful. Outwardly, at least.

The silence isn’t uncomfortable anymore, not like when they first started this mess, but Otacon can’t stand the quiet chaos of his own mind any longer. 

“Can I ask you something?”

“Hm?” 

Otacon draws a deep breath in. “How do you deal with the guilt?”

“What?” Snake turns to face him, and their shoulders graze. He’s standing so close.

“I just-- sometimes I close my eyes and I just keep going through these scenarios,” he mumbles, clenching his eyes shut. His glasses are already foggy and dappled with rain, useless anyhow. “I can’t get them to stop and it overwhelms me, and I... just how do you deal with it?”

Snake considers, and Otacon patiently waits for the words, trapped in his inner turmoil. Even though Snake is, at heart, a soldier, a mercenary, a weapon to be pointed, he can be quite introspective when the situation calls for it. Otacon had stopped being surprised a little while back.

“Well, before, drinking until I blacked out pretty much did the trick. I can’t say I recommend that though.”

“Ah.” 

“Yeah.”

“So… if that was before, what do you do now?” He certainly hadn’t seen Snake anything resembling shitfaced-- hell, the odd time either of them drank, Otacon hadn’t been able to tell if he was even buzzed. 

“It’s different now. Everything.” He shrugs, shoves his hands in his pockets. Otacon can make out the line of the handgun he has under the lapel. “I mean, I’m not alone in a cabin in the middle of assfuck Alaska keeping every other human being at a literal 50 mile distance.”

“Hah. That’s true. Now you’re alone in a city of millions. Just another face in the crowd.”

“Not really.”

It dawns on Otacon. He wasn’t talking about Alaska.

“Oh.”

“Y’know, I don’t know how you got into MIT. Or graduated kindergarten for that matter.”

Otacon just covers his face, horribly embarrassed and a little bit bewildered. Snake knocks shoulders with him, playfully, and he groans, trying not to fall too deep down the hole he’s digging for himself. 

“But that’s what I mean. You don’t need to be such a martyr.”

He lowers his hands, sniffs mostly from the cold, and observes Snake’s careful expression. 

“The point that I’m trying to make is… hm,” He roots around in his pocket for a cigarette, “That if you’re always looking back and wondering what you could’ve changed, you’re never going to be able to live in the present. You’re allowed to forgive yourself. To move on.”

“I guess so,” he mumbles, looking at his shoes. “I just can't help but wonder if I'd done something differently, that we wouldn’t be in this situation now.”

Them against the world. The government, their home country, and a secret, growing army of lethal robots of Otacon’s conception. And no one would ever know. It’s a pretty daunting future to face, for even someone without an already cripplingly large laundry list of regrets.

“So? It’s just how it is. All we can do is deal with it and try to avoid making the same mistakes.” Snake shrugs. “I mean, unless you were seriously reconsidering that whole bigger kill-bot thing, because I could get behind you on that one. I’ll start taking bets.”

“Shut up,” he replies, but he can’t deny that he’s smiling a little bit. 

He turns to blow smoke away from Otacon’s face. “Yeah, I know, you don’t want me crashing your little pity party. Woe is Hal.” 

“You make it sound so trivial.”

“Well, it is and it isn’t. I think it’s enough that you’re devoting your life to fixing your mistakes. You don’t have to kill yourself forever over what could’ve been. Never did any good for me, anyway.”

“Yeah, you’re right.” Otacon sighs, finally lifts his gaze, finds Snake regarding him with this look that he doesn’t altogether understand. It’s intense, and something else he’s not sure of. He finds himself having to turn away because he’s not sure he can meet his eyes. “We should, ah… probably get back.”

“Let me guess. The internet is calling?”

“Ha ha.” 

“I can hear it Hal-- the distant tone of a dial-up connection crying for your return.”

“You’re not even funny! What is this, 1995? Nobody uses dial-up anymore.”

“Yeah, well. I’m not a tech guy. I have you for that.”

“I would’ve never guessed.”

“Shut up, smart ass. Let’s take a detour, I’m outta smokes.”

There’s a little family owned market on their way back that they hit, stocked to the low ceiling with dried goods and bottled water, hot and muggy inside. Otacon always feels a little tense around people he doesn’t know, these days. There’s no way to tell if someone is going to kill him, or is laying a trap to orchestrate their arrest. Maybe Snake’s paranoia is rubbing off on him.

He trusts the other man’s judgment, at least, but they never go anywhere more than once. No sense in getting anyone used to their faces -- they’ll be gone soon, anyway.

The skinny Indian kid watching the till regards them with a bored expression, turns back to the TV mounted on the wall overhead. Otacon follows his eyes. When he was that age, he was hardly watching the news. He still doesn’t watch it, because it’s too depressing, only searches for articles relevant to their activity. Maybe he should start paying attention.

He suddenly begins to sweat a little.

On-screen, there are SEALs, military, something Otacon distantly recognizes as an embassy building in New York. It looks like commotion, and there are children crying, police escorting groups of people out of the building. They’ve set up caution tape, newscasters on every corner, but it’s far too organized to be a real attack. Too clean.

The president appears onscreen to address the public, and Otacon can’t shake this niggling feeling that his face is a little too familiar.

“Pretty nuts, huh,” says the kid, and Otacon takes a beat to realize that he’s talking to him. “They’re calling them ‘Dead Cell’.”

“Huh. Calling what?”

The kid gestures. “Some type of task force they use to stage surprise assaults-- like anti-terrorism training. Why you’d want to put your own people under that kind of stress just for training, I don’t understand. Sounds like typical white people bullshit to me. No offense.”

“None taken,” he replies, mouth going dry. Dead Cell. 

He feels Snake standing behind him, and he turns, where his partner is regarding the television with an illegible look. He shrugs, turns to the counter. “Hey, you got Lucky Strikes, kid?”

“Yeah, my man. You want filtered or unfiltered?”

Snake turns to Otacon, who gives him a flat look.

“Filtered,” Snake replies, with a grimace, then pays, shoving the change into his jean pocket. “Thanks.”

“No problem.” The kid grins, all youth and straight teeth. Otacon stares at the TV, before Snake is tugging his arm, and they’re gone.

Once he’s comfortably buried in an LCD screen, safe at home and in dryer clothes, he starts pulling up data on Dead Cell, out of curiosity. There’s not really that much to find online-- he imagines the government has some tight control over that information. He adds a few news sources to his RSS feed, resolves to do more research later, because being more informed is probably a better idea than continuing to keep his head in the dirt. Life continues outside of his self-erected cage, even if Snake’s managed to kick a hole in one side.

“Ah, hey,” he calls, “Mei Ling sent me some new intel she pulled from our last op. I’m just decrypting it now.”

“Hopefully instructions on how to wash the fucking dishes like a real person. I seriously don’t know how you made it this far in life, Hal.” His annoyed tone carries from the kitchen. “What?”

Otacon reads over the text again. His eyes widen, breath catching in his throat. 

“Shit. Oh, shit, Dave. You’re not gonna believe this.”

* * *

They’ve been driving north for ten hours when Otacon finally finds the nerve to ask. The look he’d received when relaying the information, that Liquid’s body is in cold storage in a highly classified lab in rural Washington, was like a door slamming shut in his face. He’s really not sure what to do, and the silence isn’t exactly uncomfortable, but he desperately wants to know what’s going through his partner’s head.

Tactically, it’s a smart idea to have the body of Snake’s clone in their arsenal. Mei Ling’s in the process of arranging a pickup, having already sorted out their extraction vehicle, and she knows someone who knows someone who’ll collect and store it for them on the low. Until they have a purpose for it. They just have to get it out the door, unnoticed.

Distantly, Otacon wishes it _was_ them that sprung Naomi out of prison, like the FBI had so falsely added to their ever-growing rap sheets. She might know what to do with a dead clone, better than they would. Maybe reverse-engineering something to eradicate the FOXDIE living dormant, still, in Snake’s bloodstream.

“Dave, what are you thinking about?” he blurts, before he can think of a better way to ask. “Talk to me. I mean, if you want.”

Snake fishes out another cigarette. He’s been chain-smoking practically the entire time, and Otacon doesn’t even complain when he only cracks the window half an inch. He’s learned to pick up on Snake’s physical signs of stress, however slight. 

He doesn’t reply for a moment, lights his smoke, brows furrowed in concentration. Otacon merges into the passing lane. 

“I’m thinking about how much I wish I destroyed that asshole’s body in the first place. I never want to look at that fucking face again.”

His own face. A mirror image.

It’s the most raw anger he’s heard out of his partner since they first met, and even though he tenses up reflexively, Otacon’s grateful Snake trusts him with that information. His honest feelings about his estranged brother are pretty personal -- even if Otacon had witnessed some of their brief contact, knew and feared Liquid from his by-the-clock inspections of REX, he’s not exactly privy to all of his partner’s feelings about killing his clone brother. It’s pretty fucking heavy.

“Ah. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” He looks at Otacon, something like misery in his eyes. “I’m just-- Mei Ling is right. You’re right. We can use his body.”

“Heh. When you put it that way, it sounds kinda sick.”

“Conspiracy to commit corpse theft isn’t exactly a shining example of our mental health, Hal.”

So much for trying to deal with it through humor. Otacon hunches down in the seat, feeling like he’s somehow made things worse. He sighs, and Snake clearly picks up on his unease, quickly switching subjects.

“Distract me with something.”

“Yeah?”

“I’ll just sit here finding more reasons to get pissed off otherwise.” He flicks his cigarette butt out the window. “Tell me a story. Something. Anything.”

“Ah.” 

He wracks his brain, tries to think of something a little more light-hearted than his arsenal of tales involving fucking his stepmom, his dad’s suicide, or building a death machine, or living in secretive squalor with an emotionally complicated super soldier clone. He doesn’t have a hell of a lot in his lonely little arsenal - most of his memories involve being by himself.

It dawns on him, and he goes red in the cheeks.

“Okay, I’ve got one.”

“Shoot.” Snake unearths a bottle of water from the back-seat, brushing past him on the way. He passes it to Otacon first.

“I told you that I worked for the FBI, right? Before I started at ArmsTech?”

“No.” Snake stares at him as he swallows, takes the bottle when offered. “When the hell did that happen, aren’t you like twenty-six?”

“After I graduated from MIT. It was kinda like an internship, it wasn’t really that big of a deal. Anyway, since I didn’t tell you I worked for the FBI, I probably didn’t tell you how I got _fired_ from the FBI.”

“Hal, get to the point.”

“Right! Ah… okay, so, when I was in college I went through a really big _X-Files_ phase. And…” 

He gestures.

There is a rather long pause. Otacon stares straight ahead.

“No.”

“Well--”

“No, Hal.” He shakes his head, even if he’s straining not to smile. “I refuse to believe that you hacked the FBI to look for information about Area 51 because of a TV show. I refuse. Too ridiculous.”

“Hey, I was curious! Besides, you fought a psychic guy once, okay. Where you had to switch contro--”

“Okay,” Snake interrupts, wryly, “Easy, there. Easy. I was just fucking with you. I believe you. It’s not really that much of a stretch. You were probably born plugged into an ethernet port.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s a lot less funny than you want it to be, considering I had to remind you what an ethernet cable is, like, two months ago.”

Snake gives him a withering look. “Are you gonna hold that against me forever?”

“I was this close. This close to breaking through that firewall. When you disconnected the router.”

“Yeah, uh, well. You can handle a challenge.” He clears his throat. “So what did you find?”

“What did I find where?” 

“Hal.”

“Oh, right, the FBI! Well, I didn’t make it that far into their network before I got caught, really, so I still don’t actually know for sure. I wasn’t as good at covering my tracks back then.” There are refractions of light on his glasses as a car blows past. He really should’ve sprung for that anti-glare coating. “But I want to believe.”

“I’m not surprised.”

Otacon exhales like a deflating balloon. “What? Don’t you think there’s something beyond the comprehension of our meagre existence? Something else out there?”

“It’s not like I have proof either way. And I mean, I did fight a psychic guy.”

“Yeah, I’m still not really sure on how that worked. How you... I mean--”

“Try not to think about it.”

“Right.” He pauses. “But--”

“Don’t think about it. Anyway, we should turn off to get gas. I can take over driving.”

“Sure. Okay, yeah.”

* * *

“Here’s the basement. It looks like they’re holding him-- uh, the body, in some kind of active pod to keep it from decomposing. Pretty high tech. Cryogenics.”

Otacon blows up the frame to fullscreen, and Snake slides past his arm as he leans in for a closer look. The feed is HD, and Otacon had been able to tap into it in record time. He’s getting used to the internal architecture of security systems, these days, the nuances between the different programs. He figures he can loop the feed for a few hours, so they can get in and out without detection.

“Hm.” Snake waves a hand, and Otacon minimizes the window, displaying a matrix of cameras in various locations in the facility. “So there are about six hallways and three rooms we need to get through if we enter through this access point. This corner here is a bad one-- huge blind spot on either side, but the risk is worth it, because these stairs here are our best chance for a quick exit. It’ll be a tight fit, but we’ll manage.”

“We?” Otacon blinks owlishly at him. “You mean you actually _want_ me to come in with you?”

“I can’t carry it by myself.”

There’s a look on his face that tells Otacon there’s more to it. He doesn’t need to ask.

Besides, the pod does look kind of heavy, all stainless steel and complex wiring. He’s more than a little disappointed he won’t have time to actually investigate the science keeping Liquid’s body in perfect condition, before Mei Ling’s contact takes it off their hands for safekeeping.

“Ah, okay.” Otacon watches the night guards milling about, for a moment. “What about the security?”

There are at least three patrol on each floor, two more posted at each entrance and exit. It’s pretty much overkill for such a small building, and even though Snake would probably have no problem taking them down, Otacon doesn’t want a higher body count on his conscious. 

“We could probably come up with a distraction. Ideas?”

Otacon thinks. Clicks around on the various screens for a better view. “That could be it.”

“What?” Snake’s eyes narrow.

“Look. Their comms equipment is right here. I bet you if we sabotaged that, they’d send a few guys to investigate and it’d interrupt their radio. I have a scrambler that’s pretty covert, they wouldn’t even have to know we were there-- it’d just look like a hardware screw-up. Then we could infiltrate the cold storage room, and be in and out before they’re online again.”

Otacon leans back, threading his fingers behind his head, spine arching in a stretch. “I figure you can set the distraction, and I can get through here and wait for you with the stealth-camo. You can clear out any remaining guards with tranqs, and we can reconvene and be in and out of the basement in twenty-five minutes, by my calculations.”

“Mm. Not a half-bad plan. You’re getting pretty good at this.”

Otacon looks over to his partner, who’s regarding him with something akin to pride. Embarrassed, Otacon lowers his arms, pulls down his shirt where it’d ridden up to bare a sliver of stomach. “It’s really no big deal.”

“Take a compliment, Hal.” He squeezes Otacon’s thigh once, then arcs up to his feet. Otacon watches him retreat into one of the two bedrooms. Slightly less of a shithole than usual, then.

He observes the security cameras for a little while longer, then starts fiddling around with equipment. Listens to Snake checking his gear in the other room, anticipation building steadily in his chest.

* * *

There are three guys rapidly approaching his position with flashlight-mounted FAMAS rifles, and Otacon is freaking the fuck out. He does not want a repeat of last time. He can’t be responsible for another death. His camo ran out of battery moments ago, and he’s not exactly a stealth expert, and this is not good. 

He draws in a deep breath and flattens himself against the wall.

A flap of cardboard peeks out from the shadows down the next hall, one of the guards turning at the flicker of light. It’s gone just as quickly, and then Snake is looking straight at Otacon, guards wedged between their positions, and he reaches for his M9. 

One of the men motions for backup, and suddenly they’re coming up on Snake too quickly, he’ll be spotted. The last thing they need is a government facility on full alert.

Otacon slams a fist against the wall before he can stop himself, then drops to the ground, scrambling on his belly to the next room. 

“What was that?” 

“On me.”

The guard turns, the other two bringing up the rear, heading in his direction, where Otacon is frantically pulling himself across the linoleum. 

Snake is crouched low, rapidly approaching, and Otacon manages to shuffle his way behind a door before he hears the meaty thunk of skin on skin, a yell, then weight hitting the ground, a head knocking the door wide on impact. A tranq dart blooms out of the back of the guard’s neck like a freshly planted flower.

Snake is standing overhead in a moment, Otacon gazing up at the stark muscle of his thighs, and he chokes out a laugh. “Cutting it a little close, don’t you think?”

“That was a pretty risky move you pulled just now.”

“Well, it worked, didn’t it?”

“Don’t do it again.” 

“I make no promises.”

Snake offers him a hand, one Otacon readily accepts, tugging him up to his feet.

They shove the sleeping bodies into nearby lockers, next to the coworkers Snake had already put into a restless, vertical sleep. Following the radar, they come across the containment area, and Otacon gets to work on the keycard scanners, replicating their magnetic frequencies with a cracking program he’d written a few hours earlier.

“Almost… almost. Oh my god, come on already.” Finally, the sensor turns green, beeping cheerfully, and Snake shoulders open the door next to him, Otacon right on his heels.

The interior of the storage area is cool enough to see their breath, metal racks lining the walls, with the same pods filling them from floor to ceiling. There’s an examination table and some stainless steel sinks further down, drains in the floor with mottled red stains.

Snake’s face goes dark, and Otacon railroads straight to the computer terminal in the room. He’s already got the root password from earlier, logs in, starts looking for the asset tag number they need in the database.

“Okay, the body should be in row 3, ID tag number 032.” 

Snake starts looking, and Otacon helps, until they come across the right tag, the former yanking the drawer open with a mechanical groan. Otacon hangs back, not really sure how the pod works yet or how to disconnect it, takes in the various armatures. He hesitantly reaches forward.

The head of the pod opens at first touch, creating a suction noise as the latches pop and the stainless steel panes slide back.

He looks like he’s asleep. Liquid’s mouth is stark white, face hollow and drained of all fluid. His eyes are open, blurry, but there’s nothing behind them anymore. There hasn’t been for a year, now. There are marks indicative of some incisions, and his right forearm ends in a grisly stump. Experimentation, maybe? For what, Otacon can only guess.

Snake isn’t moving, glaring down at his mirror image, and Otacon feels his pulse start to flutter in his throat. 

“Snake.”

He doesn’t respond, transfixed with the corpse before him. Otacon reaches across, hand curling around his shoulder, shaking him lightly.

“Snake, we only have a few--”

“Seven minutes and forty-three seconds until they get the comms back up, right? At minimum.” 

Otacon opens his mouth but the words die in his throat, hand dropping to his side. Of course Snake would know exactly how much time they had, but knowledge of the formal countdown doesn’t exactly relieve his anxiety. 

He follows his partner’s line of vision, really taking in Liquid’s face. He looks younger like this, relaxed, always having been so angry and vengeful in life. Otacon finds himself sneaking glances to compare the two, the deeper lines around Snake’s eyes, the stress there in his brow. It’s a little surreal, he can only imagine what Snake is thinking. 

He’s hit with an immediate need to understand.

With a pained expression, Snake reaches out, gently closing his brother’s eyes. He looks up, meets Otacon’s searching gaze. “Let’s go.” 

“Okay.”

Otacon hits the switch, which closes the pod with a mechanical whirr, and they start unhooking the wires and straps along the side. Snake picks up the back end, Otacon taking the front, even though it means he’ll be walking backwards. He trusts Snake to cover him, to be his eyes. 

It’s heavy, and he can feel his shoulders start to strain as they hit the first stairwell, but he’s got more stamina than he initially would have guessed. He watches Snake’s hand gestures, pauses at the display of an opened palm, moves up when motioned. The ceiling starts to lower down on them as they hit the sublevels, and the tight corner Snake had pointed out during recon causes them to readjust.

“Move left.”

“Moving. Shit.” 

“Other left, Otacon.”

“Left, see, left!”

“Tilt it.”

“I’m tilting!”

The corner of the pod jams up into the wall, with a shriek of metal on concrete, echoing up the walls. They immediately freeze, listening, Snake fixing him with a bland look.

Nothing happens. No one comes. A halogenic light overhead buzzes and pops. 

Crisis momentarily averted, they continue their path downward, until Otacon’s fingers have gone numb around the makeshift hand-holds and he’s panting with the effort.

The back door can’t come soon enough, and they burst out into the night with fifteen seconds to spare, sixty yards to the hole they’d burnt through the fence. Otacon’s legs are stiff and unwilling, but he doesn’t complain even as they reach the van, his hands burning as he yanks open the double doors.

Once the pod is safely stored, Otacon takes the driver’s seat, without a word from his partner, and teases the vehicle out of its skinny parking space, hidden in the foliage behind the building. 

“All good?” Otacon finally asks, flicking on the headlights as they burn pavement on the way to the exchange site. Mei Ling trusts their contact, but he’s still not sure about showing their faces to a stranger. 

Snake grunts his affirmation. 

Otacon does not pry.

They drive another twenty minutes, his heart rate finally starting to slow down, and then Otacon jolts as Snake’s vice grip seizes his wrist. 

“Otacon. Behind. We have police.”

He looks in the rearview mirror. “It looks like a ghost car.”

“Goddamnit.”

“Snake, I’m pulling over.”

“Otacon, you--”

“Shh!” He turns the wheel, braking slowly as he pulls onto the shoulder. “Just let me handle this. Take off your bandanna.”

“ _Otacon_.”

“Just take it off! Let me handle this,” he repeats, even if he feels like he’s about to puke. “I can do this.” At least Snake’s not in his sneaking suit this time around, looking like a bouncer in all form-fitting black. 

Snake considers. Then, “Okay.” His bandanna comes off with a flick of fabric, shoved in the side panel in the door.

After a few moments listening to the engine run, the officer taps on the window, and Otacon pushes the switch down. He’s a little flustered, smiling, Snake taut as a wire beside him, poised to strike, even if his face is a mask of casual indifference. 

“Evening, gents,” says a rather cheery middle-aged woman, but there’s cunning in her eyes, “License and registration, if you please.”

“Ah… yep.”

Otacon reaches over Snake’s lap for the dashboard, hand on his leg for stability, relieved to find the falsified documents they’ve created specifically for this job. They’re great fakes - Otacon is quite pleased with how they turned out. He hands them back to the officer, who glances between the papers and their faces with a neutral expression.

“Was I speeding? I thought I was doing the limit.” Otacon shrugs, regarding her over his glasses. “Sorry, officer.”

“You were going about ten over.”

He wasn’t.

“Ah. My bad.”

She scans their documents with a portable reader, focusing on the information that populates in her hand. Otacon tries to play it cool. He can feel the tension radiating off of Snake in the seat next to him, even if outwardly he’s the picture of serenity.

“Where are you heading?”

Snake answers when the words won’t come for him. “Olympia. We’re moving.”

“Gotcha. Think I can see what’s in the back?”

He can feel Snake bristle, but Otacon gives him what he hopes is a reassuring look as he undoes his seatbelt.

“Yeah. Sure.”

She sets a foot back to let him open the door, and Otacon nervously presses the handle. Once on ground, she indicates for Snake to stay in the car. Still, he keeps eyes on Otacon until he’s out of sight, where they’re rounding the back of the vehicle.

“Could you open up the door for me,” she says, and Otacon’s heartbeat is throbbing in his ears as he reaches for it. It opens with a squeal, Snake’s calculating expression clearly visible through the glass partition separating the cabin and the storage space. 

His eyes flick down to the bed, where the pod is carefully concealed under a false bottom, moving boxes shoved on top. Mei Ling had really outdone herself this time.

He inhales.

“Thanks.” She motions, and he shuts the doors as slow as his shaking hands can manage. “Why leave so late? Out of curiosity.”

“We have professional movers, they started early-- he had to work late, so--”

“I get it.” She smiles at him, handing back their ID, the printed warning, as they circle back to the driver’s side. “He looks a little grouchy. Long day?”

“Like you wouldn’t believe,” Otacon mutters, smiling when she gives him a scrutinizing look. “Ah, he just doesn’t handle long drives very well.”

“My husband’s the same way. Gets all sulky like your guy there.” 

“You don’t say?” 

“Yeah. It’s cute, until it’s not cute anymore.” She winks.

“Hah. Yeah.” He’s starting to feel a little uncomfortable, and he’s sure it shows on his face, but he forces himself to remain as calm as possible. “So, you think you can let me off with a warning? I promise I’ll watch my driving.”

“I believe you. I’ll let you off with a warning-- this time.”

“Thank you. I really appreciate it.” 

“Any time.” She sets her hands against the open window once he’s back inside, and she looks past him to Snake. “Be careful driving around here at night. It’s dark out in the woods.”

She tips her head in farewell, then walks back to her patrol car. Otacon’s pulse is hammering in his throat, and he barely moves a muscle until she’s back on the road, honking briefly in acknowledgement as she passes them.

When her car is finally out of sight, he lets his shoulders droop in relief.

Snake’s eyes narrow. “Fucking nosy small town cops. That wasn’t good.”

“What, we were supposed to get into a highspeed chase?”

“No.”

“Okay, well, there you go. The lab’s definitely alerted police in the area to search any outgoing vehicles - we just gave her concrete proof that there was nothing in our van. We seriously owe Mei Ling one.”

He turns the key, engine humming to life. Throwing the car into gear, Otacon gets them back on the road - they have a shorter timeframe to meet their contact, now.

“She got a good look at both of us.”

“Yeah, and then she got our fake IDs with photos and names of people who are _not us_ ,” Otacon shoots back, even if he rationally understands that Snake has good reason to be paranoid. “I don’t think she suspected us after checking out the back.”

“Still.”

Snake crosses his arms, stares straight ahead. As the adrenaline starts to die off, Otacon starts to second-guess himself, to pull apart the situation and analyze each little detail. He shakes his head, tries to focus on the road.

They drive in silence until they hit the next turn off, and Otacon laughs a little, drawing a look from Snake. 

“What?”

“Nothing. Just. Now that I think about it, I’m pretty sure she thought we were gay. Like. Together.”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“Well in the list of possible suspects, I mean...”

“Terrorists can’t be gay?”

Otacon snorts. “Oh, so we’re terrorists, again?”

“I don’t think that,” says Snake, eyebrow raised, “Speaking from the perspective of law enforcement and military, regarding highly classified body snatching.”

“Yeah, I guess that’s pretty ‘terrorist-y’.” He adjusts his glasses. “Anyway, that’s our turnoff. Then another--”

“Eighteen miles, heading north.”

“Yeah.”

They turn onto the dirt road, and Otacon counts the miles on the odometer, until finally, a ‘98 white Ford Focus is barely visible almost parked in the trees. They pull up behind it, three car lengths away. He can feel Snake start to compress and tense, priming himself for anything the situation should call for.

It’s pitch black, cold, and Otacon waits, watching as a figure opens the driver door of the Ford and starts to approach. He can see where Snake’s got a hand drifting the edge of the seat, the gun he’s got there, quietly assessing the situation.

Otacon rolls down the window as the driver steps up. It’s a guy maybe about his age, crew cut, obviously familiar with the military.

“Evening.” He’s got an accent, and a smile on his face. Disarming. “Lost?”

“We need directions,” says Otacon, the prompt for the passcode. 

“Where to.”

“Chehalis.”

“Beautiful place. Real nice. Named after the Chehalis people in 1879. Little cold this time of year, though.”

“I’m always cold,” Otacon continues, “Did you know that it had a different name?”

“I sure did. Saundersville, after S.S. Saunders.” The man looks down, and Otacon nods.

It’s the correct response-- a simple sign/countersign system. Innocuous enough if overheard, even if Otacon feels a little bizarre spitting the non-sequiturs out, like he’s in a hacky 80’s spy movie. They switch to codec immediately after.

Snake’s already opening the door, starting to clear their gear out, and Otacon follows suit, unearthing his laptop from the side panel. Their contact pops the trunk on the Ford, pulls out a power drill and fresh plates for the van.

The man rises to his feet once the plates are in place, then slaps new decals on the side panels. Snake lights a smoke. 

“So it’s really you, huh? She didn’t tell me, but I had a feeling it might be you.”

“In the flesh,” says Snake, tapping ash onto the ground. He turns away, and Otacon can tell he’s not keen on standing atop any pedestal. 

The legendary soldier, Solid Snake, a hero in the black-ops world. Not a person, not someone who hoards cardboard boxes under the bed for ‘safe keeping’, not someone holding the harrowingly long stare of the demon within himself, or someone who evaluates and deconstructs Otacon’s sentences like they’re part of an elaborate puzzle. Not someone who patiently explains weapons safety with an even, unshakable tone, who understands the price of such terrible violence.

“You changed my life. I never thought that I would get to, I mean-- I’ve heard the stories. Man. You’re incredible.” He’s starry-eyed and flat-out gushing now, and Otacon chuckles uncomfortably, inserting himself between them as Snake vaguely grunts something in affirmation to the man’s words. “You’re a legend. I always--”

“Thanks for everything.” Otacon extends a hand, and the man glances downward, then meets it hesitantly, even if he’s looking over his shoulder, to Snake. “We, uh, couldn’t do this without you.”

His handshake is firm, strong, and Otacon grips his palm before they part with a, “Good luck.” Snake takes the driver’s seat this time, and he piles into the passenger side. They watch the van kick up dirt, tail lights disappearing in the night.

Otacon releases the breath he’d been holding. Looks at his partner, the harsh set of his brows.

“Good?”

“Yeah.” He cracks the window, lights another smoke. “Could’ve done without the fanboying, though. Waste of time.”

“Oh come on, Snake. You are kinda awe inspiring.” Otacon shrugs, raises two fingers behind his ear to patch into Mei Ling’s codec.

Snake stares straight ahead. “Huh.”

* * *

By the time they’re back at the apartment, it’s six in the morning, Otacon busily typing up a post-mortem for reference purposes. Of course it’s encrypted, but it’s worth it to have a record of their activities, for one reason or another. 

Snake’s been holed up in one of the bedrooms since they returned, and he’s more or less assured that isn’t about to change anytime soon. 

He works beyond the early hours, because he’s feeling kind of weird about Snake avoiding him, figures he should stay up in case he decides to crawl out of the hole he’s retreated into. He desperately wants to know what he’s thinking, feeling, but he’ll wait until when-- if-- Snake is ready to talk.

It’s kind of lonely sitting there by himself, so he torrents the _X-Files_ , nostalgia brewing up from their conversation earlier. He throws an episode on behind his terminal sessions, tries to focus, even if his hands are getting stiff. They don’t really have heating in this place, and he’s in too deep to walk away from his computer for another jacket. It’s been hours already in the cold, he can deal with it.

Engrossed in his work, it takes a few moments to realize the heat on his neck is someone else’s breathing. He turns, where Snake is leaning over his shoulder, standing behind the sofa, too close, watching him type. “Hey.”

“Uh, hi,” Otacon says, muting the audio. “I didn’t hear you come over.”

“No one ever does.”

“Well that’s a little threatening. Jeez.” He glances at his computer, looks at the mostly garbage code he’s puked out in the last hour or so, then back to his partner’s face. “I’m not really sure any of this is salvageable, so if you’re here to put me out of my misery, go ahead.”

There’s a dark little smirk that starts, and Otacon greedily soaks the sight up. They’ve come a long way. Snake threads his fingers together, bears down on his elbows where they rest on the back of the dingy sofa. His forearm steadily presses against Otacon’s shoulder.

“It’s almost one.”

“Ah.”

“In the afternoon. Didn’t you sleep?”

He blinks. “No.” Types a few more lines. “But you didn’t either.”

There’s a pause. Then, “No.”

Otacon looks back at the screen, adjusts it to refocus the words. “You should try to get some rest.”

Snake sort of shrugs, jostles Otacon where they’re touching. Clearly, he’s already tried, but sleep doesn’t come so easily. “What about you?”

He pushes his glasses back up his nose. “I’ve still got a lot of work to do.”

“Okay.” He retreats, quiet as wind through trees.

Otacon turns back, tunes back in, and it’s like his brain is on autopilot, the physical world ceasing to exist outside of his computer.

He works.

* * *

It’s dark outside when he finally hears the telltale creak of bedsprings from the other room. Sleeping, then. He turns the audio down to a whisper, because he knows that it’s going to be one of those nights.

He’s gotten pretty good at picking up on what triggers the nightmares. Of course, they usually dance around it in the following mornings, don’t acknowledge it, he makes extra coffee, gives him space, notes the dark circles under his partner’s eyes and the tension in the line of his shoulders. They don’t talk about it, and he hasn’t tried to intervene like in those first uncomfortable months together. When the yelling had made him afraid, instead of worried.

Still, he can’t listen to him cry out in the night like that. Not after everything. Can’t let him be trapped in his head with no way out. 

Drowning in the past. Hal, of all people, understands.

He forces himself to stay put until the noises get louder, and waits for a few moments to see if they’ll stop. When they don’t, he stands, even if his hands are shaking from the caffeine he’s been mainlining, from the lack of sleep.

It’s a little weird to be going into his partner’s bedroom without his consent, but they’ve shared enough shitty mattresses, now, that he hopes there’s a foundation of mutual trust for this to be okay. He wonders if he even wants this, that the other man won’t be furious for trying to wake him up, knowing how it’s ended before.

Hal doesn’t turn on the light, hangs around by the door for a few terrible moments, watching his partner thrash in his sleep, bare chest rising and falling a little too quickly, cold sweat on his brow. He steps forward, edging alongside the frame, hand dropping to where his leg is free of the threadbare blanket.

“Dave,” he says, touching his ankle, and he’s talking in his sleep, so vulnerable like this. “Dave, hey.” It feels like he’s melting, and he’s concerned, pushing himself to move closer. 

He gets one knee on the mattress alongside his hip, tries to give him as much space as possible as his hand reaches for his shoulder. Hal doesn’t try to shake him, knows the results already, just gets a steady grip around his bicep and digs his fingers in. “Dave,” he calls, firmer this time. 

He’s proud to say he expects it when his partner strikes, bolt upright and still dead asleep, hands shooting to his throat. Hal reacts, knocks an attack off target, a fist nailing him in the mouth in retaliation, and he can taste blood already as he struggles to pull Dave back into himself, to overtake this flight-or-fight response so deeply ingrained in the other man.

Strong hands lock around his neck, and he's forced back to his knees on the bed, quickly drawing a huge breath in before he can’t. His own shaky fingers curl around the other man’s forearms, searching for the pressure point there. It’s still not enough, he’s too strong, and his vision starts to go fuzzy around the edges as Dave’s hands crush down on his vulnerable throat. 

“Dave, it-- it’s okay,” he chokes out, trying to focus on his face, and Dave’s eyes are open but there’s nobody _there_. “It’s j-just me. I’m here.”

He waits, draws in a wheezing breath, feels himself fading when the fingers around the column of his neck finally, slowly start to soften.

Then, Dave’s looking at him, really _seeing_ him, awake and horrified but he doesn’t let go. A thumb pushes up against his carotid artery, where his pulse is thready and too fast, and Hal locks eyes with him, breathes when he’s finally able. Dave’s gaze drops briefly to Hal’s mouth, slick and wet with blood.

Hal lets his hands slide down Dave’s bare arms, lets them fall away. He could kill him like this, if he really wanted to. 

Then, slow and calculated, his grip tightens again, and Hal gasps, leaning into his touch. The air shorts out in his chest, and a weak noise leaves him, the heat of the other man’s breath fanning over his face. They’re so close. They’ve never been so close. 

It feels as if eternity passes, until the pressure eases, as achingly slow as it came on. His hands stay framing the cut of his collarbone, the tips of his fingers grazing the line of Hal’s jaw. 

They don’t speak for a moment, and it’s like a lock sliding into place. Everything has changed all over again. Everything.

He gently tilts Hal’s head back in the cradle of his palms, thumb wiping the blood from his split lower lip and Hal feels like he might be dying, his body strung out and oversensitive, singing from such a cautious, exploratory touch. 

Finally, Dave speaks, in a low, sleep-rough tone. “What the hell am I gonna do with you, Hal? Christ.”

He releases his hold, fingers peeling away slowly, and Hal instantly misses the weight, craves it, but it’s too much. Dave sits back, puts some space between them, but doesn’t look away.

A pause. 

“Well,” Hal croaks, when the tension is too thick and heady, “For now... I was thinking we could watch the _X-Files_?”

Dave laughs. Actually laughs. The lock clicks, and the bolt slams home, and Hal is a little terrified at how badly he wants to hear that sound again. How he wants to be responsible for it, completely, wants to make Dave feel that way, all the time.

“Sure.”

They converge onto the sofa in the darkness under a mountain of scratchy blankets, only the dim light of the laptop casting shadows under Hal’s eyes. They end up in each other’s orbit again, magnetic, shoulders shoved up against one another, Dave’s thigh pressed up against his crossed legs. Constant, reassuring. Safe.

Hal’s vaguely reminded of movie nights with E.E., in those simpler times before he’d gone and fucked everything up, and as he reaches for the trackpad, he knows how different this is, what this means. He’s not quite ready to face it yet, though, and Dave isn’t either, judging by the comfortable silence, his even, steady breaths beside him.

He leans his head back as it starts, and it’s not like it even matters, because it had been an excuse, a distraction. He can feel the beginnings of bruises on his neck, raises a hand to touch them. Dave’s looking at the screen, but he can tell it doesn’t hold his entire focus, stealing heated glances out of his peripheral, as they let this new paradigm permeate the air between them. They don’t talk about it. Not yet.

Hal closes his eyes. For the first time, in a long time, he feels so very warm.

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to cut this in two to post it, but it flowed much better as a single piece. Hopefully the length wasn't too daunting. 
> 
> I told you guys this was slow burn. Trust kink, yay! We're almost there, I swear.
> 
> As always, I'm available at highandholy.tumblr.com to chat, or bother, or harass or what have you. Please kudos and review if you enjoyed.


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